


breathe

by michi_thekiller



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Consent Play, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/pseuds/michi_thekiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ah, breathing. Breathing's boring.</p><p> </p><p>  <i> a fic/art collab with my beautiful perfect <a href="http://archiaart.tumblr.com">Archia</a></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful, perfect [ Archia](http://archiaart.tumblr.com) and I decided to "war" one night - she would draw something, and I would (very quickly) write the related story, and we would see who finished first. (Obviously, she won.) This is the fruit of our labor. Reblog link [here](http://traumachu.tumblr.com/post/60767195272/my-beautiful-perfect-archia-and-i-had-a-war-the) if your blog is in desperate need of some long, dirty smut.
> 
>  **[Now available in Chinese](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=4640)** , by the amazing Fay!

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Sherlock says, and he wraps his hand around John’s throat.

That was the truth of it: Sherlock had him. He’s always had him, no matter the lies that John had knitted around his own heart. From the first wonder to the last miracle, from the first corpse to the last kiss. And when they kissed, how Sherlock had him, and had him, and had him.  

There’s a moment where an instinctive  _‘no’_  almost slips out, but the hot sound of pleasure that escapes him is anything but protest, and John only nods instead. Naked on Sherlock’s lap, spread open and vulnerable, he’s already lost when Sherlock holds him and rocks up just right. The pleasure sparks bright in his belly, sparking in his head. His breath comes fast, fluttering in his chest; he’s panting as if all the excitement has built up hot inside of him and he doesn’t know how else to let it out. He’s so full - achingly, painfully, beauteously full - impaled on Sherlock’s cock as he clutches the arms of Sherlock’s chair for leverage, fucking himself, showing what he can do.

Sherlock has beautiful hands - elegant and pale and long-fingered. They are a musician’s hands, the kind that can coax wood and string to sing, they are the hands of a scientist, slicing into a specimen layer by layer, until all the secrets of its anatomy have been found out. Kind hand, violent hand, cruel in gentleness, loving in brutality.

Sherlock’s beautiful hand tightens around John’s throat.  

John’s erection twitches in response, leaking precum down the length of it. The receptors in his brain are flooding with adrenaline, stupidly unable to distinguish between pleasure and danger. Each one enhances the other. He arches back, a ragged whimper spilling from between softly parted lips, flushed and swollen from harsh kisses. The light cotton of Sherlock’s shirt slides against his bare skin as Sherlock fucks him, a smooth sort of friction along his spine. The frission of feeling along his spine, every thrust slick and right. Sherlock’s shirt is already damp with sweat, combination of Sherlock’s and his own, the two of them melding together. The pressure on his throat is heady and ever increasing, and each breath becomes harder and harder to take.  

John can feel the oxygen slipping from his body, slowly depleting from his bloodstream. Redness fills his vision when he closes his eyes. Sherlock’s hand is so warm and strong. Sherlock’s body so solid beneath him, his embrace tightening and John is hyperaware of their bodies moving together, his body being filled, aware of the rub of Sherlock’s cock along his insides, pressure in all the right places, the head of Sherlock’s dick rubbing against his prostate, dragging wickedly along it, making all the nerve endings sizzle. He whimpers, the only sound that he can make with the limited air that he has. His panting has been completely reduced to tiny breathless noises.

He’s going light-headed from the lack of air, from the slow accumulation of carbon dioxide in his blood. Euphoria slips in, into his brain, slides smooth through his body, his body shivering, quivering hot.

"Shh," Sherlock soothes, and although there’s a soft whimpering sound, it seems to come from very far away.

And then Sherlock’s hand tightens even further, completely compressing his arteries - his carotid and his jugular - a light pressure on his trachea, cutting off his air supply.

There’s a moment where John struggles, the fighter in him lashing out, his irrepressible  instinct for survival. He claws at Sherlock’s hand, unable to help it, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the back of Sherlock’s pale wrist. He tries to grab it and tug, but all his movements are strangely  small and weak.  

Sherlock gasps, thrusts up harder at the feeling of John squirming helplessly upon his cock, fighting but not-fighting, rubs his dick inside of John in a way so  _right_  that it makes John’s whole body squeeze and tremble and it saps all the remaining strength from John’s limbs as he gasps uselessly for air.  

“Relax,” Sherlock pants. His breath is warm and moist against the side of John’s face. “Just relax. It’s going to be all right.” His  grip on John’s throat is iron-strong, fingers clenching, immovable. His other hand is splayed on John’s stomach, holding him tightly in place as he fucks him.  

“I’ve got you,” says Sherlock. His voice is a low, comforting hum in John’s ear. The words buzz around inside John’s brain, going fuzzy as they melt into memory.  

Sherlock kisses his ear, then the side of his face, then his neck and shoulder. His kisses are soft and wet. His chokehold is brutal, unrelenting.

And John, he stops struggling.

The pressure on his throat then isn’t pain, isn’t anything anymore really, the world fading mutely from around him. His vision goes blurry and then small spots of colour appear, vibrant inky splotches of black. He’s literally breathless, lips parted and attempting to gasp, no air in, no air out. His lungs burn with the need for air, the desperation to inhale, exhale, and his heart pounds a quickening, thundering beat in his chest, racing with his spiking adrenaline.

His eyes are closed. His mouth is open. Nothing comes out. No whimper, no sound. He can’t even form the word  _help_ even if he wanted it, and his own helplessness makes his body shudder, a reaction as involuntary as the galloping beat of his heart.

The energy seeps out of his muscles, his limbs, and a calm settles over him. His body goes limp, unable to support himself anymore, slumping back against Sherlock’s body. Just like a doll now, warm and tight, a toy whose only purpose is to be fucked, to be used and filled. He is reduced. Nothing more to give away.  

“You’d let me do anything to you,” Sherlock murmurs, words only barely comprehensible in the humming sensation that fills John’s brain, the pleasure that sweeps through his body.

He feels his body being jolted, tossed about and invaded, wet sounds of their bodies moving together; he feels the intoxication of hypoxia, the sheer ecstasy of complete surrender; how safe he is in that moment, how treasured, completely used and taken over, blackness on the edges of his vision and then seeping in, teetering on the razor edge of unconsciousness, the low drum of blood in his ears and the quietness of his lack of breath and lungs burning and Sherlock’s cock inside of him, hard and fucking him and he can’t breathe, he’s suffocating slowly and everything is all right, shh, it’s all right can’t breathe but it’s all right—

The pressure on his throat releases and John gasps, lungs filling with a rush and the sudden flash of oxygen to his brain like electric shock, surge of pleasure straight to his dick just as Sherlock slams up hard, making John choke on the thrust, and his orgasm crashes over him. Body shaking, squeezing and clenching around Sherlock’s cock inside of him, nearly sobbing with the pulse of his own prick and the sheer rapture of breathing, lungs filling and depleting, inhale and exhale, inhale, exhale. He collapses, spent and panting, soft overwhelmed sounds in between with warm drops of semen on his own skin and some on the carpet.

It doesn’t take Sherlock long, either, both hands gripping John’s hips now, fucks him through his orgasm and then he makes a choked sort of noise as well, groaning deep as he empties himself into the tight and hot clench of John’s body, compliant and receptive for him.

John comes down afterwards, shivering and trembling, lost to himself, still gasping for breath. Sherlock shakes a little too, post-coital tremors of pleasure. He places kisses upon John’s throat, soft and soothing, arms tight around his body. John arches back against him, relaxing into his embrace.

"Thank you," John murmurs. Sherlock hums softly in acknowledgement, fingers reverently stroking John’s throat.

And John closes his eyes and listens: to the rhythm of Sherlock’s breath, how it hitches and catches. He listens to the loudness of his own heart, and remembers, all over again, how to breathe.

 


End file.
